6

Writing reports was about as exciting as cleaning toilets . . . or doing taxes . . . or grocery shopping.

As Colin’s eyes glazed over and the words on the computer screen blurred, he heaved a sigh. He needed a break from the boring task. Any excuse would do. A new case to work on . . . a suspect to interview . . . a lead to track down.

Too bad none of those were imminent.

He’d have to settle for checking email.

Straightening up from his slouch, he clicked on the icon and scanned his new messages. The one from the ME’s office, with “Coulter Tox” in the subject line, jumped out at him.

Wow.

Two weeks for toxicology results had to be a record.

Either there had been nothing in the initial tests to indicate the cardiac arrest listed as cause of death in the autopsy was suspicious—or a red flag had gone up fast.

For Trish Bailey’s sake, he hoped it was the former.

Leaning forward, he clicked on the email and skimmed through it.

Full report attached. Bottom line: E. Coulter was taking digoxin, a drug often used to treat abnormal heart rhythms. Too much can cause ventricular tachycardia . . . which can lead to ventricular fibrillation . . . which can cause sudden death. The deceased had almost triple the amount that should have been in her system based on her prescription and the half-life of the drug—more than a therapeutic dose, but not necessarily lethal. However, it was in the potentially toxic range, given her medical issues and age. Call with questions.

Colin muttered a word he seldom used.

“Must be bad news if you’re resorting to that kind of language.” Mac McGregor arched an eyebrow at him from the adjacent desk.

Lack of privacy was a definite negative in the shared-office setup County had deemed adequate for detectives.

“Not how I wanted to start the week, that’s for sure.” He opened the attached report. “I was hoping for different findings from the ME.”

“On which case?”

“Eileen Coulter. The suspicious death in West County.”

“I take it the suspicions were valid?”

“That’s what the tox report suggests. Sounds like too much of one of her medications could have triggered the cardiac arrest.”

“Murder . . . or mistake?”

“The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. You have some time this afternoon?”

“I could spare an hour.”

“Can you give me two? I need to talk to the daughter again. She managed her mother’s medication.”

“You planning a long interview?”

“No. I’m building in travel to her house. She’s already dealing with a lot of trauma. I’d rather not put her through a trip to headquarters.”

Mac leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. “Very considerate.”

At the speculative gleam in his colleague’s eyes, he busied himself straightening a stack of papers on his desk. “Just trying to bolster our good-guy image.”

“Hmm.”

“So are you coming or not?” Colin dropped the stack into one of his desk drawers.

“Yeah. I’d like to meet this suspect.”

“She isn’t a suspect.”

“Then why are we questioning her?”

“Fine.” He slammed the drawer shut. “She’s a marginal suspect. I need to do a little more digging, talk to some references, verify she’s a loving daughter who made a tragic error rather than a greedy offspring on the fast track to an inheritance. But based on my initial interview with her, my instincts tell me we’re looking at a mistake, not a murder.”

“Instincts are good. Intel is better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He squinted at the other man.

“Just sharing some wisdom from my special forces days. What time do you want to go?”

Colin opened his mouth to tell him what he could do with his wisdom. Shut it as logic kicked in. Mac was as solid as they came, and while he might have less experience in law enforcement than a lot of the County detectives, the skills he’d honed during his SEAL days had come in handy in plenty of dicey situations. His opinions were always reasoned—and sound.

“I need to finish some reports this morning. I’ll contact Trish Bailey and let you know what I set up.”

“Works for me.” Mac rose. Stretched. “It’s great to be back on days.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Text me with an update. I need to follow up on a few robbery leads.”

Colin gave him a thumbs-up.

Once Mac left, he rocked back in his chair in the empty room, eyeing the cell on the edge of the desk. He hadn’t talked to Trish since his call to let her know the autopsy was finished and she could claim her mother’s body. That had not been an easy conversation.

This one, however, would be harder. They were now crossing the bridge to the scenario she’d queried him about on their late-night ride to the Hilton.

But while he might not be happy about the direction this had taken, he’d maintain his neutrality during the investigation. Mac’s diplomatic reminder had been unnecessary. He was a pro, and he’d do what needed to be done. If there was nefarious intent, he’d root it out.

More likely, though, he’d discover that Eileen Coulter’s death had been due to a tragic mistake and there would be no legal culpability.

Emotional culpability—different story.

And as he picked up the phone to arrange a meeting with Trish, he suddenly wished that the only item on his agenda for this Monday morning was a stack of boring reports.

At four thirty on the dot, the front doorbell chimed.

Trish sucked in a breath . . . wiped her palms down the black fabric of her slacks . . . and prepared to face bad news.

If Colin Flynn was paying her a call with another detective in tow, this was a serious-business visit.

Trying to stay calm, she crossed the foyer and pulled the door open as Colin was leaning forward to press the bell again. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Come in.”

The two tall detectives stepped inside.

“Ms. Bailey, this is Mac McGregor, one of my colleagues.”

He was back to the formal Ms. again.

Not the best sign.

She took the hand the other man extended and returned his firm shake. “Would you like to sit at the kitchen table or in the living room?”

“Wherever you’re more comfortable.” Colin’s tone was pleasant, and there was warmth in his eyes.

Or was she reading too much into his demeanor?

“The kitchen’s fine. It will be easier for you to take notes at the table. I assume you’ll be doing that?”

“Yes.”

Stomach twisting, she led them to the back of the house. So much for any faint, lingering hope they might be here to pass on information rather than gather it.

Which could mean only one thing.

The tox results were back—and the ME had found irregularities.

Pressure building in her throat, she sat and forced herself to accept the truth. These men were here because her mother had died as a result of a mistake she’d made with the medication.

“My mom’s heart attack wasn’t from natural causes, was it?” No sense putting off the hard stuff.

“No.” Colin didn’t try to sugarcoat his answer. “The tox screen found an elevated level of digoxin. According to the ME, it wasn’t a lethal dose, but given your mother’s heart issues, it could be considered toxic. His report suggests the high level of that drug led to ventricular fibrillation—a deadly arrhythmia and a leading cause of sudden cardiac death.”

“So it was my fault.” She closed her eyes, struggling to accept the harsh truth. When a tear trickled down her cheek, she groped in her pocket for a tissue.

“Let me get you some water.” Colin’s quiet baritone filled the silent void in the kitchen.

Apparently he realized she needed a couple of minutes to compose herself, because he didn’t hurry. And by the time his chair scraped again and he set the water in front of her with a soft clink of glass against glass, she had her emotions under control. Or as close to control as she was going to get.

“Thank you.” She dabbed at the moisture on her lashes and took a sip. “I know you have questions. Go ahead and ask.”

After scrutinizing her, Colin flipped open a small notebook. “It would be helpful if you gave us the names of a few people who are familiar with your relationship with your mother.”

As his implication sank in, another jolt rocked her.

These two homicide detectives hadn’t come to her childhood home just to deliver bad news. They were here because the police weren’t certain the extra medication her mother had taken was due to an accident.

And if foul play was on their radar, she would be the prime suspect.

The room tipped.

“Ms. Bailey?”

At Colin’s prompt, she wove her fingers together. “You don’t actually think I would do anything to hurt my mother, do you?”

“We’re still in the evidence-gathering phase. That’s why a few names would be helpful.”

“You want character references?”

He shifted in his chair. “That would be one way to look at it.”

She crimped her fingers together, trying not to resent the men seated on either side of her. They were only doing their job. Colin Flynn might have been kind the night her mother died, but that didn’t mean he was going to cut her any slack now. He’d become the lead detective in a potential homicide, and he didn’t seem like the type who would let personal feelings or opinions influence his handling of a case—or a suspect.

“You could contact my minister, our neighbors, my mother’s physicians, the home-healthcare workers who came here every day while I was at school, my mother’s friends, one of my coworkers whom I socialize with on occasion . . . do you need more?”

“No. That’s plenty.”

She gave him the contact information for a dozen people.

“You already have Matt Parker’s phone number and address, but you could talk with him too. He’s been part of our life for the past year.”

While Colin scribbled in his notebook, the other detective spoke.

“Other than the home-healthcare workers, who had access to your mother’s medications?”

“Anyone who was in the house. I always left them on the counter.” She gestured to the spot reserved for her mother’s medications, empty since the CSU tech had carted it all off. “But except for an occasional repair person, very few people came inside. We didn’t entertain. Mom’s friends stopped by once in a while, and our pastor was a regular visitor. That’s about it.”

“Who was here the week or two before she died?”

“Our pastor dropped in once. And Matt, mom’s accountant. He comes every month. More often in the past few weeks.”

“Why?”

“He and I . . . we went on a couple of dates. But that’s over.”

“Because . . . ?”

She slid Colin a quick look. “I could tell he had serious intentions, and I didn’t see any future with him.”

“Did you end it before or after your mother died?”

“After.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who would benefit from your mother’s death?” Colin rejoined the conversation.

“No. I’m her sole beneficiary, but as we’ve discussed, the bulk of her estate is in the charitable foundation.”

“Did your mother have any enemies?”

“No. Everyone loved Mom—including me.” Her voice broke, and she fished out another tissue.

“I think we’re done for today.” Colin closed his notebook. “I’ll contact some of the people on the list you provided and be back in touch.”

He stood, and McGregor followed his lead.

Trish pushed her chair back and rose. After steadying herself with the table for a moment, she led them to the door.

In the foyer, Colin paused beside the satchel filled with art supplies she’d dropped there when she’d arrived home from school.

“Have you gone back to work?”

“Yes. A few days after Mom died. Sitting around here was depressing—and finding decent subs at my school is difficult. Plus, I didn’t want to disappoint the kids. We’re having an art show as part of our end-of-year party, and if I drop the ball, it won’t happen.”

“When does the term end?”

“Middle of next week. But I’m also doing a summer art program.”

“Busy schedule.”

“Busy is good right now.” She swiped at another tear and pivoted away to open the front door. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks for your cooperation.” McGregor extended his hand and gave her a quick handshake.

When it was Colin’s turn to say good-bye, his warm fingers held hers a second longer than necessary.

Or was that only wishful thinking?

Before she could decide, he released her hand and followed his colleague down the front walk.

She waited by the door until they reached the Taurus parked at the sidewalk, then shut it with a quiet click and wandered back to the kitchen table. Picking up her glass, she eyed the contents as she walked to the counter. Half empty—or half full?

These days, half empty described her life far better . . . especially with the news Colin Flynn had brought about her culpability in her mother’s death.

How was she supposed to live with that for the rest of her life?

Gripping the edge of the sink, she bowed her head.

God, please help me through this. You know how much I loved Mom, how I did everything I could for her. You know I was always careful with her medicine. I can’t believe I made such a terrible mistake. But I have been distracted lately. Please give me solace, and fill me with the healing power of your love so I can face tomorrow with hope instead of despair.

As she finished the silent prayer, Trish unclenched her fingers from around the sink and straightened up. She might never understand why the Almighty had allowed so much tragedy to befall her during the past two years, but she wasn’t going to turn away from him as many people did when life got tough. She was going to cling tight to his promise that he would be with her always. And she was going to trust that one day soon, life would be bright again.

Because if she didn’t, the shadows hovering over her soul could swoop in and shroud her in darkness forever.

“I think you’re right to give Trish Bailey the benefit of the doubt.”

As Colin pulled away from the curb, he spared Mac a quick glance. “What happened to intel trumping instinct?”

“I stand by that—but I see where you’re coming from with her. She doesn’t strike me as a killer.”

Reassuring to have his opinion seconded.

“Plus, there’s no obvious motive.” Colin accelerated toward the exit of the classy subdivision where Trish had grown up.

“There’s that too. You going to contact everyone on the list she gave you?”

“Most of them.”

“You want me to tackle a few of the names?”

“Do you have the time?”

“I can squeeze in two or three interviews. Now that you’ve brought me up to speed on the case and I’ve met the daughter, I’d like to see this resolved too.”

“Another body on the case is always welcome. No pun intended.”

“Glad to hear it, because that was lame.” Mac stretched out his long legs as much as he could in the Taurus. “So . . . Trish Bailey is a very pretty woman.”

Colin flexed his fingers on the wheel. Where had that come from?

Best to play this cool.

“Yes, she is.”

“The water was a nice touch, by the way. Very considerate.”

Colin kept his eyes pointed straight ahead. “She needed a minute to pull herself together.”

“True.”

When the silence between them lengthened, he checked on Mac. The other man was watching him with an amused expression.

Great.

“You know . . . I’ve been thinking.” His colleague’s words were steeped in mirth.

He wasn’t touching that comment with the proverbial ten-foot pole.

Didn’t matter. Mac didn’t wait for an invitation to continue.

“Assuming Trish Bailey is as innocent as we both suspect, you could always stay in touch on a more personal basis after this wraps up.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you like her.”

He held on tight to the wheel and tried for a neutral tone. “How did you jump to that conclusion?”

“No jump needed. The evidence spoke for itself.”

“What evidence?”

“The location of the interview. The water. Plus, you’re unsettled by this discussion.”

“I’m not unsettled.”

“Watch the light.” Mac motioned toward the traffic signal ahead.

Colin jammed on his brakes as the signal changed from yellow to red. Even with his foot mashed to the floor, the car crept a few feet over the line before it stopped.

“My mind’s on the case, not the woman.” A stretch.

“Too bad. She likes you too.”

“What are you, a mind reader?”

“Nope. I just watched how she watched you.”

“You’re off your rocker.”

“Nope. She looked at you a whole different way than she looked at me. Did you catch the glance she sent you while she was talking about breaking it off with Parker?”

“No.”

“Too bad. It was significant.”

Colin tried to replay the scene in his mind, but nothing jumped out at him.

“I think you’re reaching. And since when have you become an expert on this kind of stuff, anyway?”

“Since I met Lisa.” He grinned. “She was a first-class detective before she became a police chief, and she reads people better than anyone I’ve ever met. Thanks to my lovely wife, I’m a lot more tuned in to interpersonal nuances. Trish likes you. Trust me.” He inclined his head toward the signal as a horn beeped behind them. “Light’s green.”

Turning his attention back to the road, Colin accelerated.

For the remainder of the drive back to headquarters, the conversation revolved around work topics—but part of his brain continued to process Mac’s comments.

Did Trish like him—and might she be interested in getting to know him better once this whole mess was cleared up?

Perhaps.

But before he got too enthused about that possibility, he had some interviews to conduct. There was still a chance she might be involved in her mother’s death. Slim, but possible.

So until this was sorted out, he’d concentrate on doing his job and keep his distance from a certain appealing teacher, except for professional reasons.

On the plus side . . . unless his instincts were way off base, the interviews would exonerate her—opening the door to a whole different kind of relationship. And the process shouldn’t take long. All he had to do was talk to a few people, compare notes with Mac, and file a report.

Wrapping this up should be a piece of cake.